Tiger Babies Strike Back (20 page)

“Oh, you will be so glad you moved here,” she said with obvious delight. “Lucy will have so much fun playing with the white kids!”

Uh . . . what?

No doubt my race hackles were always on alert, but really. REALLY? I stood wide-eyed and mute for a full twenty seconds.

The secretary then went on to explain that she knew my neighbors, the Whites, whose two school-age daughters were also enrolled at the school. I breathed a sigh of relief.

“Oh,” I said. “The Whites. I get it!”

I must admit, though, it was pretty weird going from the city, where thinking about different ethnicities was always somewhat in my mind, to a small town, where racial homogeneity was the norm. There were a few nonwhites here and there, but for the most part, it didn't look too diverse from the outside. There were all different sorts of
white
people—retirees and families, conservatives and liberals, rich homeowners and homeless guys loitering around downtown. There was also a contingent of alternative lifestylers in a big vegetarian, pot-growing, blond-with-dreadlocks kinda scene. So yes, there was indeed a lot of variety in the all-white population, like going to a paint store and finding everything from cream to titanium, blanc de chine, alabaster, and antique white. But nonvanilla flavors were generally not too well represented here.

This apparent lack of diversity was especially surprising because Nevada City did once have a sizable Chinese population. Here at the foot of the Sierras, Nevada City was once known as the Queen of the Northern Mines, and it was a thriving community that sprang up after the discovery of gold in 1848 in Coloma near Sacramento. In the late 1800s, Nevada City was California's third-largest city after San Francisco and Sacramento. Here and in the surrounding areas, hundreds of Chinese men came seeking fortune. They found work, but they also encountered discrimination, poor treatment, and outright attacks.

The Chinese were affected also by legislation that debilitated them at every turn—a foreign miners' tax aimed specifically at them, the Chinese Exclusion Act limiting immigration from 1882 until its repeal in the 1940s, laws forbidding marriage between races, regional taxes on wearing the Chinese hairstyle (the queue), and even taxes and legislation against carrying baskets on poles. Additionally, Chinese workers were allocated only the areas of land considered to be already stripped of gold, or fishing and shrimping areas that were believed to be depleted.

The thrifty and tenacious Chinese, however, often did more with fewer resources. They swallowed their pride to take jobs that other workers would not deign to do. Also, they banded together for protection. Their strength in numbers and ability to survive in varied conditions were perceived by other ethnic groups as threatening. From San Francisco to Sacramento, and from Nevada City to other mining towns and rural areas in between, the Chinese population that achieved so much for the railroads, gold mines, and infrastructure for the West often was rewarded with only derision, physical violence, and murder.

I think often of this local history as I walk the streets of Nevada City now, more than one hundred years later. I am frequently the only Asian face I see all day, maybe even all week, save for my own daughter's. Occasionally I do see some Japanese Americans around, the surrounding area having once been home to Japanese fruit growers, but after the internment of Japanese Americans in World War II, their numbers had also diminished drastically. The descendants of the original Chinese miners have mostly all moved on to bigger cities with more opportunities. I have not yet once met a single Chinese person here whose family came and stayed throughout the changing economic times.

So what of them is left here? I live one block from the old Chinese part of town, and nearby is a plaque and a memorial fountain where vagrants hang out in the native grasses, smoking nonnative weed. The remaining buildings that were once occupied by an opium den, a laundry, a couple of shops, and a residence are now remodeled structures that house a Thai restaurant, a trinket shop, and a couple of boutiques. The stores sell sculptures of Buddhas and accentuate an Asian vibe with meditation books and paraphernalia, candles, lotions, incense, and mandala carvings. It's all pretty blissed out, and sometimes, in the corner of the window displays are old photos of Chinese residents or opium smokers to both show what came before and to infuse the businesses with the romance of Orientalism.

When we first arrived here we attended an idyllic, small-town Constitution Day parade, which is held every year, ostensibly to celebrate the signing of the U.S. Constitution. A nearly identical parade occurs each Mardi Gras and every other Fourth of July. The kids love it, and it is indeed fun for the whole family, and for all the town's residents. So far, in the four years we've lived here, we've attended this main street attraction several times. Included in the festivities are middle school and high school marching bands, local businesses in a motorcade, Shriners in their tiny cars whizzing around in figure eights, and local service groups and unions strolling past and sometimes handing out candy, American flags, or plastic Mardi Gras beads.

Amid this parade of local color is also an anemic, three-person contingent carrying a Chinese drum and brass cymbals, knocking out a little tune barely reminiscent of the clanging, heart-pounding beats at the San Francisco Chinese New Year parade. I wasn't really expecting any Chinese representation at all, but frankly, I wonder if nothing would be better than this strange little something. Only one guy of the three is actually Asian, and the other two have embarrassing Fu Manchu mustaches and are dressed in flashy robes. I am so undone by this paltry salute to my heritage that I am still unsure if they actually represent an official group of any kind or exist as simply an offhanded hey-how-ya-doing from the ghosts of Chinamen past. Every time I spot this small group, I wonder how I might lure a real San Francisco or Sacramento kung fu school here for the next parade to do justice to the area's local Chinese history. But inertia being what it is, regrettably my wishful thinking dissipates as they amble past and the next attraction distracts me.

And if you want to know if I've ever experienced any discrimination here, the answer is no. If asked to speculate why, I'd have to point out that there are so few Asians in town that we pose no threat in numbers. The history of prejudice and antagonism against the Chinese had everything to do with quantity. Before so many Chinese immigrated to the United States, city and town residents throughout the West showed more tolerance of their presence, however begrudging. I once saw a photo of a Chinese vegetable garden from the 1800s that was smack-dab in what is now Pacific Heights in San Francisco. However, as time went on, and the public perceived that the immigrant “celestials” were coming in droves, the Chinese were confined to only certain areas of town, and newspaper cartoons began to depict Chinese people as rats pouring off the ships in unstoppable numbers.

As soon as a few strangers turn into many, their “otherness” becomes more apparent and, simultaneously, more abhorrent. Their strangeness cannot be absorbed or diluted by a majority, so a group once considered innocuous enough is then viewed as a potential threat. The same trend occurred in mining areas as well. A handful of Chinese in the camps was one thing, but once there were more than could be counted, their foreign customs added to the overall rancor among miners who were all competing for the scant gold that was getting harder and harder to find. This dynamic set off a domino effect of discrimination and abuse. It is apparent even today in modern suburban communities when urban Chinese move to surrounding areas and form new shopping areas or pockets of residences. Even if Asians are the only group moving in to revitalize an area, it isn't long before they are targeted for derision even if it was solely their gumption and sweat equity that made the old, run-down sections of town safe, lively, or even vaguely palatable and therefore valuable to the local real estate market and businesses.

But now in Nevada City, despite the history of abuse toward Chinese in the past, there are definitely not enough of us here to pose any kind of imposition to the greater whole. We are in no danger of developing into a majority; rather, we are easily diluted into the creamy hue of eggshell white. I have always felt accepted and welcomed here and have known no hostility from my fellow townspeople. If more Asians or Asian Americans did happen to move to the area, who knows what might ensue. Perhaps when faced with the onslaught of more numerous or less-Americanized strangers, folks might offer me olive branch statements such as “But you're different,” or “You're not like them,” or “You're white anyway.” In college, none of these statements ever actually reassured me the way they were intended. Thus, even those of us who are fully Americanized are still subjected, however infrequently, to these occasional, qualifying statements. And we always recognize that slow, sinking feeling, that knowledge that in other people's eyes, we are always intrinsically different.

If you don't really get what I'm talking about, think back to that movie
Pretty Woman
. It's just like when Richard Gere says to Julia Roberts, “I've never treated you like a prostitute.” When he walks away, she gets teary, as if she can't believe he just said that. Then she says to herself, “You just did.” That's what I'm talkin' about. Even if a Chinese American's thoughts of racial difference are temporarily not in the forefront of her thoughts, anyone—a stranger, a friend, or a mogul you've recently fellated in the penthouse of a five-star hotel—might at any time unleash an unexpected bon mot to bring home the reality that your race always means something to somebody.

But back to downtown Nevada City.

I remember the first time we ate at the Chinese restaurant on Broad Street. The owner came to our table and asked, “What are you doing here? Visiting from out of town?”

This was not the first time that a proprietor of a Chinese restaurant had come out from the kitchen to inquire about where we'd come from or why we were there. It happened several times when Rolf and I traveled the Southwest, years before we had Lucy. Here in California, though, I hadn't thought a Chinese face would be so unique.

“We just moved from San Francisco,” I said. “We live two blocks away now.”

The Chinese man grimaced and looked at us in disbelief. He said, “Why would anyone
leave
San Francisco?”

Rolf and I looked at each other. It was our first week here and we were still reeling from our whirlwind move, wondering indeed if we had made a mistake. Rolf said, “Um, I'm feeling a little fragile about that right now. Could we not talk about that and just order our food?”

For the first weeks, months, and year, we walked through town and tried to get the feel of the place. Nevada City's old buildings compose the most comprehensive group of existing Gold Rush–era structures in the West. Within the population, there are families who have been here for many generations. But who knows? Maybe you're not considered a local until you've lived here for twenty years. The checkers at the grocery store only really started talking to me after we'd lived here for three years. I have never before lived in a small town so I have always been aware to mind my p's and q's. I didn't want to come here and declare anything about myself. I wanted to see what might come to me on its own. And so it was with the Chinese thing, too. I wanted to absorb whatever I found here, and not step on anyone's toes. But, hey, I do have to leave the confines of my house sometimes, and when you walk among the people, toes do get accidentally stepped on.

There's a guy who runs a fancy Chinese trinket shop in town. At first I thought it was a little odd that he's never been very friendly to me. I can't tell if he's just cranky, or if he's being vigilant because he thinks my kid is going to knock something over. We are always very careful and respectful when we enter his shop, which is filled to the brim with Asian knickknacks like Quan Yin statuettes, fancy teapots, silk pillows, feng shui handbooks, and various doodads adorned with the faces and lithe figures of Asian ladies. The owner's eyes follow me each time I'm there, as if he fears I'm gonna shoplift something really expensive. You'd think that I'd be that store's target audience, its ultimate consumer, but no. He scowls at me like I'm some toothless meth addict asking to use his bathroom.

And similarly, there's a scholarly gentleman who runs the local museum with Chinese artifacts. He wants no part of me either. We toured the historic building where he educates visitors cheerfully, and after talking with him, I did send him a couple of e-mails on topics he seemed interested in. I was appropriately respectful of his knowledge and his position. But there was no love connection there either. I initially thought he'd be delighted to talk to someone who was familiar with the Chinese Historical Society in San Francisco and other organizations he mentioned. However, any time I seemed a little too informed about the Square and Circle Club (a service organization of Chinese women that my mother once belonged to), or a Chinese American artist, or the famous photos of Chinatown by Arnold Genthe, he just got more irritable. I guess he was the one used to doing the teaching, and he was a little peeved that I wasn't a completely unformed vessel.

So I've been thinking about these two gents for some time now. Maybe there can only be a couple of scholars on Asian culture around here, and these two guys have already divvied up the territory. They both deal in a certain romanticism about the area's Chinese history. The museum shows enlarged photos of Chinese residents from the late 1800s wearing silk finery, elaborate hairstyles, and old-fashioned shoes. The foreign charm and exotic details are very attractive. Likewise, the trinket shop wholly commodifies the Chinese past with decorations that play up the allure of Asian calm. In both cases, I am being sold a bill of goods here, except ironically,
I am the goods
.